


Where the Pedals Fall

by SadisticbutSweet



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, Gratuitous Battle Wagon Racing, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 13:36:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13765263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadisticbutSweet/pseuds/SadisticbutSweet
Summary: Lt. Hurley finds herself in over her head when assigned to capture the most elusive thief in Goldcliff -- especially when she finds out that the aforementioned thief is her favorite Battle Wagon racer who wants Hurley to be her driver...We know how this story ends, but how did it start?[A prequel story to the "Petals to the Metal" arc. Spoilers through "Petals to the Metal"]





	Where the Pedals Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise, I'm not writing space alien threesomes! (Not right now, anyway).
> 
> Much love to my Fan_Fic class for giving me an excuse to start writing fanfiction again. This will probably come very slowly because, y'know, college and a thesis and I'm an adult now, but I'm really excited for this prequel fic and I hope there's other Hurley/Sloane fans who will be hyped for this, too! If you enjoy it please leave a comment! It's the age-old request fanfic authors always make, but it does help to know there's an audience who wants to read more. <3

Far in the Eastern Desert is a city where the two great rivers converge before breaking again, split, tumbling over the edge of bright, golden cliffs. Goldcliff. The home of the top one percent of Faerun, and home of the finances of the top one percent. You can see the money in the spires of the Goldcliff Trust, the largest and most well-fortified bank in the land. It towers over the desert, taller than any other structure, more shining than the cliffs themselves. It stretches ever upward, thrust into the sky, splitting it to mirror the rivers below. If one was ever lost in the desert, they could follow that spire for miles back to civilization.

Even in the city of the rich, though, there must be a “poor” for such a high status to even exist. A Lower. A Lesser. The backs upon which wealth is built. They slink along the alleyways of Goldcliff, weary-eyed and watchful, picking their next meal ticket from a basket full of them. They exist on the literal fringes of the city, on the precipice of the cliffs, where they survive in communes and gangs. Reformed warehouses from the days when Goldcliff was an industrial region become the prize of turf wars, housing the victors.

They are the thieves, the shadows, the rapscallions.

And most importantly of all, they are the _racers._

* * *

 

 

Twilight in the desert is cold. It shakes a dust cloud up that sparkles like ice. The wastelands surrounding the city are utterly uninhabitable and uncolonized, housing fierce sand storms. Spanning the visible length of the desert, spaced several hundred feet apart, are tall broadcasting pylons. The glossy-black surfaces of their broadcast screens shimmer through the sandstorm, marking the boundary edge of a massive, miles-long path. A straight-way racing course.

“Do you see them yet?”

A small, masked crowd waits by the finish line right at the western edge of the cliffs.  Several sit on top of Battle Wagons -- hand-built, powerful moving machines -- trying to catch a better vantage. One person presses a set of binoculars to their eyeholes. The flag bearer rolls and unrolls the flag, rubbing his hands to keep warm. A short woman whose mask resembles a ram’s skull stands on her tip-toes as if the extra few inches would give her a better vantage point.

A dull hum sounds, and slowly becomes a buzz. There, far in the distance, a dark spot appears, growing larger and larger. The entire crowd roars to life, invigorated. “There! They’re coming!”

Two Battle Wagons pull into view, neck-in-neck. In the lead is a metal death trap, a wagon with sharp metal spikes on both sides. A snake is painted along the sides where flame stripes would be. A motorbike with the skull of some canine speeds along right behind it, staying just far enough away to avoid the spikes. It’s a push-pull battle as the snake wagon slows and swerves, trying to catch the motorbike off guard. One clip and the smaller bike would fall apart, putting it out of the race. The onlookers cheer for no one in particular. Their excitement is in the race itself, and not the victor.  
  
The flagbearer unfurls the checkered flag and takes their place at the finish line. The wagons burst to life, rushing forward. The engine of the lead car hisses, embodying its thematic. The canine motorcycle pushes forward, swerving, about to overcome the front wagon and –  
  
_**Crack!**_

The noise rings through the entire desert, and the crowd watches in awe as the motorcycle hairpins, jerked off course, and spirals into the open desert before crashing in a heap. A loud horn blares from the nearest pylon, signaling the knock-out as the assailant pulls into view. A pure black, narrow land boat with a pair of massive, wing-like sails. Standing at the front of the ship, a spiked whip in hand, is a tall, willowy figure wearing a half-mask of a giant bird. Her other hand holds a large wheel that was clearly commandeered from a caravel, steering effortlessly over the desert waves.  
  
The noise is absolutely thunderous. “The Raven! The Raven took out Dingo!”  
  
“She won’t get Snake, will she?”  
  
“She plays dirty, she has to.”  
  
“He’s still alive, isn’t he? If she wanted to kill him she would have.”  
  
And loudest, above the others: “Fuck, my bet!” Several nod in agreement.  
  
**_Crack!_** The crowd jumps as the Raven’s whip strikes the metal of the Snake’s wagon, unable to grab purchase. Her wagon bounces over a ridge of sand, her feet slipping and almost sending her toppling. No guards or rails protect her from getting thrown overboard. Another loud hiss from the Snake’s engine as they rush down the final stretch, pulling further and further away from The Raven. The Raven sets her feet, rears back and strikes once more. This time her whip hits and gets tangled in the rear wheel of the Snake’s wagon, wrapping around the axle.

Everything happens at once. The wheel bursts, the metal rim dropping into the sand. Bits of rubber fly off, smacking into the Raven’s ship and falling beneath her wheels, lost to the desert. The Snake’s wagon pivots around the busted wheel, spiraling. The flag bearer backs up, shouting over the noise. His words are indistinguishable over the increasing roar of engines, but the meaning is clear. The whole crowd backs up with him, taking cover behind their own wagons and running out into the desert. No one takes their eyes away from the track. The Raven pulls her whip back, hauling the Snake’s wagon back with it as she swings her ship around with incredible speed. The counterweight shoots her around the Snake’s wagon, pulling ahead, further --

She jerks her whip free. It waves in the air behind her as she clips the flag and skids to a halt, balanced at the precipice of the cliff, victorious.

 

* * *

  
  
_“What?”_

“Sorry, Raven.” The Mole -- a squat, dwarven woman wearing a mask of a mole skull -- shrugs. “You’re just not fast enough, and we already have a good assault squad. We just don’t need you.”

None of the other racers standing in line will meet The Raven’s eyes as she searches up and down the line for backup. Finding none, she looks back at The Mole. “This is _bullshit_. Lynx wasn’t even top three!”

“Yeah, they also didn’t wreck their wagon.” Another shrug, and she beckons the chosen racer from the line. They rush forward and share high fives with their new crew, whooping in camaraderie. They throw off their old mask, a paper-mache mess resembling something vaguely cat-like, and don a mole mask to match the others. They click the teeth in satisfaction. The Raven glares, dark eyes peering out through the bone eye-holes of her mask. She snarls, and the Mole flashes her teeth back

“Oh, you think you’re so tough. It’s our crew, our tryouts, our pick. Get over it.” The Mole laughs, spitting in the sand.

“You’ll lose to me,” the Raven snaps. “I’m going to make you regret not picking me.”

“Big words from one sad, lonely racer,” the Mole says, and gestures to her crew. “Come on guys, we’re done. Let’s get their wagon back to the garage. We have a big day to prepare for.”

The line breaks, grumbling among themselves. The Raven storms back to her wagon, kicking up sand under her heels. The dissipating crowd gives her a wide berth. Those left behind grumble with their groups, sharing information and finishing bets. Two of the bystanders help The Snake change the ruined tire on his wagon, and the flag bearer goes with the slightly banged-up Dingo retrieve his motorbike from the desert. None of them turn to the Raven, but her name leaves their lips in quiet whispers. It’s a consolation prize.

“If it means anything…”  
  
The Raven turns, frowning at the empty desert. A cough draws her gaze down. A halfing woman, standing barely taller than three feet, stares up at her through the skull of a ram. The sheen on the mask makes it look like real bone and not carved wood or molded metal like most racing masks. Her smile is lopsided and she pushes a stray curl of hair behind one of the horns of her mask.

“I thought you were amazing! It’s hard to steer and dismantle the wagons at the same time. I think you can take them, for sure.”

“...Thanks. You a racer? I didn’t see you out there.”

“Oh.” The Ram shifts, nervously, and laughs. “No, no, I’m just a fan. I don’t think I’d ever really compete.”

The Raven looks over the desert, toward the crowd. One of the wagons bears a ram skull on the flag, a hand-painted emblem on a thick tank of a wagon. Her eyes narrow. “Your wagon says otherwise. Custom wheels, and a nice set. Too much time put into that to let it just get dust in a garage.”

“Yeah, maybe.” The halfling looks away, shifting her weight. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you good luck. I’ll be watching for you at the next real race.”

The next _real_ race. The Raven watches the halfling run back to her wagon, watches the crowd milling around. The Mouse. The Hammerhead. The Octopus. She spots mask after mask of top racing teams among them come to scout the competition. She swallows, and looks back at her wagon. Wheels. Axles. A new set of sails. She only let them see a prototype. She could do bigger, better. Schematics form in her mind as she pulls herself aboard her wagon.

Two weeks. Two weeks until the next official Battle Wagon Race, and The Raven had work to do if she was going to put on a show.


End file.
